


you only hear the music (when your heart begins to break)

by undeadpsycho13



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Bitterness, Bittersweet Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 03:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10846005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undeadpsycho13/pseuds/undeadpsycho13
Summary: He passes portrait after portrait, some posters, some paintings, each and every one of them framed.  He doesn’t bother to look at any of them.(But that’s only because he’s seen them so many times that he knows the one to his right is one of Viktor when he was sixteen, tossing his head back in laughter, long tresses thrown back in a mane of glory, winning his first Grand Prix Final, and the one to his left is a portrait of none other than himself, dolled up in one of his costumes and posing, reluctantly for the painter.)(He knows that day he had been especially murderous and glared furiously at the painter, but she had just changed up his face into a bright smile, so that it looked nothing like him.)(Like a fraud.  Like a fake.  Like a joke.)





	you only hear the music (when your heart begins to break)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SinMint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinMint/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Ria!! You deserve all the fics in the world, got it? No argument. This is for you, and the other fic is for you. You deserve all that and more. :D
> 
> (Title credits to My Chemical Romance, from the song The Kids From Yesterday.)
> 
> (By the way, the I speak zero Russian and used Google Translate, so if anything's wrong, feel free to catch me out on it.)

**_i._ мучение** **_(torment)_ **

A lone figure stands in the middle of the outdoor ice rink of St. Petersburg, head bowed, eyes dark, contemplating.  And then, with a flourish of his arms, a wide arch above his head, the figure starts to dance.

It isn’t just any dance.  There is no music, no audience, no applause, no cheering, no one to enjoy this agonizingly beautiful spectacle.  He dances to a song only he can hear, a rhythm only he can comprehend.  It seems as though he never stops, always and forever in motion, a whirlwind of colour and movement.

There is no music to be heard, because he is the music himself.

The movements are precise, planned, every part of him meticulously positioned in the right place at the right time.  If only someone were able to capture this startling beauty from the lens of a camera, or the words in a diary, and yet…

He would not have wanted it this way.

He would not have wanted his misery forever recorded in the pages of a book, forever captured in the pixels of a picture, because he dances to let those feelings go.

In vain, of course, because those feelings do not go.

They torment him like death.  
  


* * *

 

 

**_ii._ чудо** **_(prodigy)_ **

When Yuri Plisetsky is four, people assure him he is going to be the next Viktor Nikiforov.  Because, why not, of course you would give the young child, reluctant to enter the rink, some form of encouragement.

They didn’t realize that this one child in particular took it to heart, this one child in particular thought,  _ Hey, maybe I  _ can _ become the next Top Figure Skater of Russia _ .  They didn’t realize that this small child with golden angel hair and wide blue-green eyes would really become the greatest, the best.

( _ But I will be _ , he vows to himself,  _ I’ll prove them all wrong and I  _ will _ be _ .)

At first, no one really noticed him.  After all, he was only the boy who came every couple of weeks for a short lesson, slipping in between the rush hours to slide across the ice before he was off again, to god-knows-where.  But gradually, once every two weeks became twice every week, and then five days a week, and then two hours a day, seven days a week.  By the time he turned five, three months after he first wobbled across the slippery, well-worn ice, he was already skating better than most of the regulars.

And that's when people started to notice.   _ Three months, barely five, and already doing a salchow and enter a spin from backwards crossovers?  No way.  _  Whenever he toddled by, too-large skates adorning small feet, loosing all the grace he had on ice as soon as he met the ground, people started to whisper, pointing and shoving to catch a glimpse of this child prodigy.

It was worse on the ice.  It seemed as though Yuri never ceased to have an audience, that he could never practice anything, perform anything, without a pair of eyes watching his every move, scrutinizing, judging.   _ The new Viktor Nikiforov.  The younger Viktor Nikiforov.  The more talented Viktor Nikiforov.  Viktor Nikiforov.  Viktor Nikiforov.  Viktor Nikiforov.  _  And that was his his curse.  Despite being better, despite being younger, despite working harder, Yuri Plisetsky was forever in Viktor Nikiforov’s shadow.

( _ Forever was his shadow. _ )  
  


* * *

 

 

**_iii._ ** **воспоминание** **_(memories)_ **

The figure starts walking, albeit slowly, albeit aimlessly.

The hood of his jacket is on, earbuds blasting loud music that no one else can hear, hands in his pockets, eyes cast downwards at his feet, dragging listlessly from an invisible weight only he can fathom.  Before his mind can fully register where he has subconsciously taken himself, he is already half way across the city, gazing up upon the building he has probably spent more time in than his own house.

Soundlessly, he slips, unnoticed, into the Yubileyny Sports Palace.  Step by step, his feet guide him down the maze of corridors that he knows so well, ghostly footsteps echoing off intricately decorated walls, and for some reason he hears undefined, blurry memories echo off the wall as he walks.

( _ Oh but who is he kidding, of course he recognises these memories, all of them recorded in shaky cam with everything blurred out except the centre of focus, a dash of silver hair, a stroke of beautiful aquamarine, a spark of light that illuminates the tinted blue, and even  _ Yuri _ can’t deny he doesn’t know who this is. _ )

He passes portrait after portrait, some posters, some paintings, each and every one of them framed.  He doesn’t bother to look at any of them.

( _ But that’s only because he’s seen them so many times that he knows the one to his right is one of Viktor when he was sixteen, tossing his head back in laughter, long tresses thrown back in a mane of glory, winning his first Grand Prix Final, and the one to his left is a portrait of none other than himself, dolled up in one of his costumes and posing, reluctantly for the painter. _ )

( _ He knows that day he had been especially murderous and glared furiously at the painter, but she had just changed up his face into a bright smile, so that it looked nothing like him. _ )

( _ Like a fraud.  Like a fake.  Like a joke. _ )

 

* * *

 

**_iv._ бунтарь** **_(rebel)_ **

Yuri first meets The Legend at age ten, at some local competition even he can’t remember the name of.  He talented, young, and obstinate, and just like every other hot-headed preteen, refuses to follow orders.

_ No quads _ , Yakov had specifically told him,  _ No quads until you’re older _ .

_ Like hell I’ll listen to you, old man _ , Yuri thought and thought and didn’t say.  Yakov would no doubt whip his ass if he so much as hinted at that.  But, of course, his actions said enough.  Blocking out the screams of protest from the sidelines from his coach that rung out loud and clear in contrast to the audience, who had gone silent with anticipation when they had realised what he was doing, Yuri counted down the beats to the music.

Three… Two… One… 

Up he leapt, and then he was falling, down, down, down, except in that moment, amidst the falling he managed to do that extra spin that lands him a place in the history books, the second to land a quadruple salchow in Junior competition.

( _ Second _ , he thinks bitterly to himself,  _ And not first, because Viktor is always first, at everything. _ )

“You idiot,” His coach screams and rants at him as soon as he steps off the ice, “I told you repeatedly that quads are off-limits because your body is still developing!  If you can’t follow orders, then quit!”

At this Yuri rolls his eyes and blows his nose extra loud, if not just to drown out the tirade.  Yakov is still shaking with anger and opens his mouth to continue when––

Clapping.  Slow, sarcastic clapping that suddenly cuts off this coach that even Yuri never dared interrupt this openly.

“Yakov,” A melodic voice says, calm and confident and graceful and everything Yuri has ever wanted to be, “You should praise him more.”

Yuri looks up at the person speaking from the stairs, tissue still held up to his nose, eyes still fixed in an are-you-kidding-me look.  The guy who just told Yakov to praise him more (as if that would ever happen) is tall, taller than Yuri probably ever will be.  And yet it is not the height that encaptures his attention, but rather the face that everyone in the skating world could probably recognise from a single glance.  It’s the silvery-grey hair that sweeps over one eye, the burning flame lighting viridian eyes, so alike his own, it’s the careless smirk that adorns his face and the sharp jawline and the straight, infuriatingly perfect nose that marks this person as Viktor Nikiforov, living legend of Russia.  The very same Viktor that has his fans practically worshipping the ground he’s walked on and has paparazzi tracking his every move.

Yakov, however, apparently is not one of these fans, for he treats Viktor no different than he treats any other of his students, except maybe he’s harsher when it comes to Viktor,

“Don’t butt in!  This is none of your business!”

Viktor as well is unfazed by Yakov's screaming, and instead turns his attention to Yuri, who is staring unamused at the spectacle.

“I used to get scolded for doing that too.  You can win, even without quads.  I’d bet money on it, that you could win the Junior Championships.”

Yuri thinks for a moment, doesn’t let any of his emotions slip onto his face.

( _ There are tons and tons of them racing back and forth in his head, a torrent of chaos, because this is  _ Viktor _ , as in  _ The Viktor Nikiforov _. _ )

And then, he stands up, so suddenly that the chair he’s been sitting on screeches back into the wall at the unexpected movement.

“Okay, if I win without quad jumps, then choreograph a programme just for me!”

( _ It’s childish, he knows from the whine that even he hears in his voice, but then again, he  _ is _ a child. _ )

Viktor smiles, softly, reaches down from his perch on the stairs to stick a hand towards Yuri for him to shake.

“Sure.  When you win the Junior World Championship, come see me.  I’ll give you the best Senior Debut ever.”

( _ When,  _ Yuri notices him say _ , When  _ and not _ If. _ )  
  


* * *

 

 

**_v._ непредусмотрительность** **_(hindsight)_ **

The memories are bittersweet from the hindsight of the present and salty from the tears.

He watches each and every one of them through his mind’s eye swirl pass.  Frames line the walls, line his memories, like an eerily inviting pathway.   _ Come to me, stay with me _ , they call out in an endless whisper.

( _ He sees a newspaper article proudly showcasing the accomplishments of Yulia Lipnitskaya, remembers how he used to, just but a few years ago, stare up at the screen in awe and watch her perform.  He doesn’t watch her any more.  He’s better than her now. _ )

The memories haunt him, and yet he pays no heed to their pathetic beckoning, only staring forward, only looking ahead.  There’s a light in the distance, so close, so touchable, as if only a few steps, a armslength, hairsbreadth away, and yet… 

When he reaches the light, the poster that greets him mockingly brings only a greater darkness that envelops him.

( _ It swallows him whole. _ )  
  


* * *

 

 

**_vi._ забытый** **_(forgotten)_ **

Yuri is fifteen when he wins the Senior Grand Prix Finals.  A gold medal, the centre position on the podium, fame and glory and brilliance at it’s best, won from weeks and months and years of hard work and practices and injuries, and yet it is not enough to quench the thirst of his greedy heart.

Yakov is laughing and praising him and clapping him on the back, Mila is screeching borderline hysterically at him, even Lilia Baranovskaya flashes him a brief smile of approval.

Yuri is the only one unappeased by what he has accomplished.

Yuuri, on the other hand, gets what the Russian teenager wants the most, but can’t have, something that should not be named.

( _ Viktor Nikiforov, Viktor Nikiforov’s approval, Viktor Nikiforov’s recognition.  That’s all he wants, all he ever wanted. _ )

It is Yuri that wins gold, Yuri that wins first, but even this accomplishment is drowned out by all the hype involving the (not so) discreet relationship between a certain Japanese figure skater and said figure skater’s coach.  

Even Yuri is drowned out.

( _ Not just metaphorically.  He literally feels like he’s drowning, something slowly gnawing away at his insides, because what will it take for some recognition, any recognition, when will he be able to step out of the shadows into the light? _ )

( _ But if one were to dig even deeper into his mind, fish out every thought, they would realise that he doesn’t care, doesn’t care that he’s been slighted by the rest of the world, only by a certain someone. _ _ He tells himself any recognition, but really it’s Viktor’s recognition that he yearns, craves, but does not get. _ )

How far to he have to go, at what lengths will it take, to finally get what he wants, and not what the world wants from him?

The tears that cascade down his face silently only come after the event, when he is in his room, face buried in his pillow, alone.

( _ He wishes he weren’t alone. _ )  
  


* * *

 

 

**_vii._ ** **идеальный** **_(perfect)_ **

It’s a portrait of a perfect couple.

Both Viktor and Yuuri are smiling like they own the world, because maybe, for once, they do.  After all, they are getting married.  The whole world is celebrating with them, the whole world will be cheering them on from the sidelines as the exchange rings and vows.  And yet, this boy standing in front of their portrait can’t bring himself to be happy for them, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he wants to.

Ever since he knew how to skate, Viktor Nikiforov has always fascinated him.  He watched him on national news, international news, in front of him, and then finally from across the rink.  All his life he’s been working towards his idol.  

Except… 

Somewhere along the way, the idol became something more than an idol.  He became more than just an untouchable rival that he would forever have to reach towards yet never get to.

Somewhere along the way, this child’s insatiate heart yearned for more than just to beat Viktor ( _ that happened, and people always wish for more than they can ge _ t), yearned for more than just recognition ( _ recognition is nothing more than a joke, he’s learned that over the years _ ).

_ Oh Viktor _ , he thinks with a bitter smile, staring at the skater’s brilliant smile captured by the lense of a camera, frozen in time with his happiness and his fiancé,  _ If only you knew… _  
  


* * *

 

 

**_viii._ ** **большое горе** **_(heartbreak)_ **

Yuri Plisetsky is sixteen when his heart is completely and utterly shattered by the only person he has ever loved.

(Конец.  End.)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first YOI fanfic, hope you guys liked it :D
> 
> i appreciate all comments kudos bookmarks and whatever. criticism welcomed, even if it's phrased rudely. idc, just say smthn


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